"I Want You To"

Chapter 3

The shards of that day had embedded itself in my psyche. Something had awoken, a creature that I never knew even existed, a twisting, uncoiling serpent with scales that glistened with a strange light of its own. It roiled deep inside me, its tracks etched in the smooth soil of my existence. I turned my back on it and tried to get on with life. I buried myself in my work while the lawyers negotiated separation and divorce.

Through that time, Collette and I kept in touch. She was part of the local BDSM scene and she kept sending me invites to local events.

"I think you'd enjoy it," she said in a text. "You should come. I'll ease you in."

I laughed it off and kept finding reasons not to go. Foremost was being recognised by someone I knew socially. In retrospect, this was ridiculous; whoever recognised me would be recognised themselves and we would keep each other's confidences in a sort of mutual blackmail. The truth was, I was afraid of taking the risk, of reaching down and grasping the serpent's coils wrapped around my soul.

After a while, the texting back and forth between Collette and me stuttered out. I figured she had moved on. I thought I had as well. Until she rang me out of the blue one afternoon.

It was Friday evening. My mother insisted I accompany her to the mosque, as if praying would improve my situation. It had never worked so far, but it was easier to give in. I'd dropped her off after and stopped by the liquor store to stock up on my preferred coping strategy. That week, the strategy had been tequila.

I saw her number flash up on the screen and swiped to answer.

"Hi," Collette said, sounding breathless. "How are you?"

"Fine," I replied. "This is a surprise. How are you?"

"Great." She paused. "Really good." Silence.

"Great." Silence.

She giggled. "I just wondered if you'd like to meet up again. With me. Another session." She paused. "You know, like earlier."

My throat was dry. I had thought of it many times, but I dismissed it since it didn't fit with the image of me that my mother had presented to the Indian marriage broker.

"He's a good Muslim boy," she said, without a trace of irony. "Very hard-working. Decent. No bad habits. From a good family. His father was a doctor, you know. And my great-grandfather worked in the Nizam's court in Hyderabad. He was almost nobility, you know."

Was I a good Muslim boy? Really? I drank alcohol. I ate bacon. I only went to the mosque when my mother insisted I take her. There went the Muslim bit.

Work? I tried to do as little work as possible. And I was hardly decent, considering I'd face fucked Collette into near-unconsciousness.

As for the wider family, well, they were a bunch of over-involved, snotty, racist wankers. They thought white people were lazy, entitled trash. And they all did things good Muslims weren't supposed to do. They were hypocrites, and I detested the lot of them. Almost as much as I detested myself.

I didn't think too much before I answered Collette's question.

"Sure. Like earlier? You mean-" I looked up, realising where I was. The guy at the till was watching me like a hawk. I must have looked like a secret alcoholic shoplifter. "Can I call you back in five? I'm in a shop."

"Oh. Okay. Bye."

I called her from the car. My heart was racing.

"You were saying?" I said.

"Would you? Like to meet again."

"I'd love it."

"Great." She almost purred. "I'd love that too." She took a breath. "Only I wondered if you wanted to try something different. A bit more edgy." She rushed on. "Only if you want to, that is."